Legacy
by SebTheWriter
Summary: Collection of 10 mostly stand-alone drabbles, inspired by one-word prompts. Originally for poetry class. Johnlock if you want.


******Insect**  
As he examines the small glass container under his microscope, Sherlock's eyes light up with a childish glee. "Look, John, these bees are fascinating!" John looks up from his laptop, confused. "Bees? Since when do you study insects?" The detective carries on as though he hasn't heard his friend. "I mean, the societal structure alone! Did you know that when the Queen dies..." As Sherlock rambles on about the many assets of earth's 'most intelligent creatures,' John can't help but smile. These simple, emotional moments are few and far between, but as long as the detective is happy, his blogger is too.

**Ceremony**  
"Speak now, or forever hold your peace." I want to speak. I want to yell, cry out, scream to the heavens that this is NOT OKAY. Because Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson are supposed to be together, forever, and what does a hero do when his sidekick decides to run off and leave him? All for the sake of some woman. But the light in John's eyes and the smile on his face are something he almost never shows around me. If this will make him happy, then I have to 'hold my peace.' I have to let him go. A sociopath doesn't have friends. Caring is not an advantage. I repeat it to myself like a mantra, try to stay calm. John's eyes find mine in the crowd. His grin widens. I try to smile too, show him that I respect his wishes. The grin I flash him feels false, fabricated, and I think he knows that too. His eyebrows furrow for a moment, but his focus is quickly diverted. "Do you, John Watson…" Perhaps it won't last. Perhaps, one day, I'll get my doctor back. But for now, the ceremony must go on.

**Clamp**  
It's odd to think that just hours ago, we were the Yard's best consultants. Now, dashing through backstreets and deserted alleyways, trying to get away, it's hard to believe we were ever their friends. I feel Sherlock grab desperately for my hand, and suddenly I'm being yanked to the side and pressed into a narrow doorway, his warm body flush against mine. Strong fingers clamp down over my lips, stifling my protests. "Shh." The whisper is barely audible, a breath of wind against my cheek. Slowly, as the sounds of pursuit fade away, we both begin to relax. Sherlock pulls me away from the wall, and I'm suddenly aware of how fast my heart is hammering. As his fingers tighten around mine and I'm pulled back into the cool night air, I suspect it's not entirely from nerves.

**Brine**  
Cold brine rushes all around, the salt stinging the cuts on his arms and legs. He struggles and gasps for air, but his mouth is instantly flooded by water. It burns in his throat and eyes, choking and pulling him down. He flounders, tries to cry out. John Watson has survived desert sun and enemy bullets, countless battles and chases and adrenaline rushes. He thinks, as the murky surroundings fade to complete darkness, that drowning really is the only adventure left.

**Suffocate (continuation of 'Brine')**  
Lestrade knew something was wrong as soon as he heard Sherlock's shout. "JOHN!" he took the stairs two at a time, bursting onto the deck, to find the consulting detective trying to throw himself over the railing at the side of the ship. His voice was an angry snarl; "Let me go! Just let me go help him!" Several minor policemen were clinging to Sherlock's arms, telling him to calm down, a rescue crew was in the water, it would be all right.  
By the time they find John, Sherlock has shouted himself hoarse, slumped on the deck. As soon as the divers heads place his limp body on the deck, Sherlock is at John's side, shaking him, begging him to wake up, suffocated by his own fear. Lestrade watches quietly, trying to figure it all out.  
Sherlock Holmes used to be so cold, he thinks. So inhuman. He's always wondered what John Watson did to make that machine human again. What is it about that simple, unobtrusive man that brought out the best in the worst sort of people?  
When John finally moves, gasping and coughing up seawater, the consulting detective practically pounces on him, hugging his friend tightly and mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like 'thank god.' Lestrade smiles.  
He always knew that that doctor would be Sherlock's undoing.

**Legacy**  
After the Fall, John tries to cope. He manages, too, for the most part. But there is one thing that never ceases to infuriate him: even after Sherlock's death, it seemed that no one forgave him. He still noticed the scathing comments, the dirty looks and whispered insults, both at the Yard and on the street. Even now, people thought Sherlock was a liar. They thought he was a fake. For months, John tried to contain the frustration boiling inside him, the rage at the fact that Moriarty really had won in the end.  
Until one day, on his way home from the clinic, he saw the graffiti. An entire brick wall emblazoned with a yellow spray-paint smiley face, and the slogan 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.' In the later months, the doctor began to notice this message, among others, painted all over the city. And he smiled. Even now, nearly a year after his Fall, the Consulting Detective's legacy lived on.

**Borrow**  
There was a certain constant domesticity to the atmosphere at 221B Baker Street. Somehow, even if they were in the middle of a particularly gruesome murder case, John and Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease with each other and their home. John would make tea and convince Sherlock to eat regular meals, Sherlock would steal—borrow John's laptop, and they would bicker like an old married couple. Though John would never admit it to anyone, he loved these days, when they could simply relax and go about their business. But sooner or later, Sherlock would get a break in the case and jump to his feet, pulling on his coat and sweeping John out the door, back into the rush and excitement of the London streets. While John knew he was far too lenient where his flatmate was concerned, he also knew that their routine wouldn't be changing any time soon.

**Burden**  
John's absence weighs heavily on my mind as I glance around the crowded elevator. If he was here I could lean down, whisper the life story of each passenger into his ear, chuckle about his or her blank, oblivious face. My blogger would scold me, tell him not to objectify people so much, but there would be a smile in his eyes. Now john isn't here, though, and I cant help but miss his presence at my side. I never realize how much I rely on him until I'm alone.  
I hurry out of the cramped compartment, burst out the double doors into the crowded street. John is my anchor, my humanity, and without him I feel far too alone. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can get that burden off my back.

**Untangle**  
It was almost one in the morning when Sherlock slipped into his flatmate's room. He hadn't slept in days, as his experiment in the upstairs bathroom was too critical to abandon for any length of time. However, the detective knew that his body could not function without rest, so he grudgingly crept into John's room – it was closer than his own – and flopped into the double bed. His friend groaned groggily, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. "Sherlock? Wha–?" "Shuddup." The detective mumbled, his voice hazy with exhaustion. John was too tired to protest properly, and simply rolled back onto his side, hoping to catch a few hours' rest before the sun rose.  
When John woke up the next morning, he was faced by a tumble of pale limbs and messy hair. Apparently Sherlock was a restless sleeper and, sometime in the night, had managed to sprawl himself across John's side of the bed, as well as the doctor himself. Now the detective was lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across John and his face nestled into the other's shoulder. Their legs were looped together as well, but John couldn't be bothered to untangle them. In a way, he was glad that Sherlock could overcome his 'sociopath' façade, if only in sleep.

**Messy**  
From the beginning, they were each other's anchors. They held one another down, kept the other safe, made sure they didn't float off into the seas of their own madness. The detective and the doctor always kept each other whole. They kept each other human.  
Their lives are messy, a wild web of confusion and mystery, but looking back, they wouldn't have liked it any other way.


End file.
